Friends often ask if they can join me for the parties I write about. If I'm crashing a party, it's more difficult when I have people with me. If I've been invited to the party, it's awkward to bring others who are going to eat the food and drink the beer.When I was interviewed on the Dick and Skibba Show one night, Skibba suggested that we hang out. I invited him to a party at a La Jolla mansion.
Driving through La Jolla Shores on a weekend sucks, but the valet at the party made it simple. I was happy to tip, since it was free valet and parking was difficult to find. (Nothing is worse than tipping a valet when they are already charging you and then they park the car ten feet away.)
Marc, the host, told me he calls his party the "Gold Diggers Ball." He and his friends invite several single women, and when they see the house, their eyes turn into dollar signs. Marc told me a story about meeting a woman at the party once, going out with her, and then having her ask to borrow thousands of dollars. As I told one woman who couldn't stop talking about the huge house overlooking the ocean in La Jolla, "I'd consider turning gay, if it would get me into this house."
There were security guards, lots of food, and drinks being served by two bartenders on the patio. I asked how much was spent, and Marc said, as he was writing a check to the band, "I spent over $5,000. I don't mind, though. I only have these parties a few times a year. And I'm not looking to meet women here. These aren't the types of women I want to date. I hired the Cher impersonator from Lips. I have my friends here."
As the sun set, Marc told Skibba and me about a woman he took on a private jet to Hawaii. Marc paid for everything. When they were walking around the island, she asked for a few dollars for an ice cream cone. "She couldn't even buy her own ice cream cone, or buy me one. It's not about the money; it's the principle. If the woman would make some gesture, instead of seeing my house and thinking I should spend so much money on them..."
I thought Skibba would be a good wingman for me. He has long hair and a Jim Morrison vibe. But when we walked to the back of the house where it was less crowded, I became his wingman. We saw a group of Asian women sitting down, and we approached them. We both liked Tammy, but he sat next to her and started his rap. She was a doctor with a great sense of humor. One of her friends seemed interested in me. She said, "Oh, my god, you're that guy from the Reader! The party raider or whatever it's called." She gave me a backhanded compliment of saying I was cute but dressed like a slob, and she volunteered to take me clothes shopping. Tammy's friend seemed tipsy, and as Tammy and Skibba were talking, she asked Tammy for her medical opinion about an injury. After Tammy gave her advice, using all these medical terms, I asked if doctors are often asked to look at weird things on people. She laughed and said, "As long as I'm not eating, and they don't show me some disgusting rash on their body. I don't even want to look at things like that on my own body."
I lit up a cigar, and a blonde who looked to be in her late 40s came over. She had a thick European accent and yelled, "Stop smoking that cigar! It smells so disgusting!" Skibba said, "Hey, lady, your accent is disgusting." She turned to Skibba and said, "I think your look is disgusting," and she stormed off. The man who was with the European woman was staring me down. I wondered if Skibba would have my back if he came over looking for a fight.
I grabbed a drink and walked to the front of the house. Security wouldn't let anyone upstairs to see the band. There was a crowd on the beach watching them sing Beach Boys and Buffet-y tunes. I heard the band go into a Herman's Hermits song and thought they weren't the hippest group around. Then I saw a group of 40- and 50-year-old women singing along and thought that perhaps I had judged wrong.
I met a woman named Jessica who was funny and flirtatious. She asked me if I golfed. I told her I had trouble getting past the windmills so I gave up. She laughed and offered to teach me. She handed me her phone number. I was digging her, but she said she was dating a few different guys and that she preferred it that way. She said, "This last guy took me to see Santana. Now that's a great first date. He even had a bunch of joints. He told me he didn't lick them, that he used spring water."
I grabbed a glass of red wine and went to watch the waves roll in. It was so crowded that my view of the ocean was obstructed by singles trying to pick up on each other. There was one guy who looked like a porn star from the '70s -- huge mustache, curly hair, unbuttoned shirt.
I noticed that the women use body language and facial expressions to show a guy that they aren't interested, but the older guys don't pick up on that. The woman usually ends up walking away in the middle of the guy's rap.
I went back around to see how Skibba was doing, and he was walking Tammy to her car. He came back and said, "I don't think it went well. I asked for her phone number, and she said, 'Just as friends, right?'" I agreed that wasn't a good sign. He added, "I think I blew it when I went to grab a cigarette and a condom fell out of my pocket." A woman who was walking by started kissing Skibba as her friend yelled for her. I asked him what that was about. "I don't know. I think she was drunk, though."